We cry out and He responds

ON a trip to Eretz Yisrael in the summer of ’98, my family decided to visit Breichat Hameshushim. I was nine years old, and excited to be going on an authentic Israeli hike.

Our “tour guide” — my jovial and adventurous cousin who had made aliyah a decade earlier — assured us it would not be deathly difficult. Unfortunately, as tourists from New York, we didn’t truly understand what it meant to spend the day in 105-degree heat.

The hike wasn’t hard per se, but it was long, hot, and sorely lacking a shred of shade. On the side of the trail were abandoned cars, many of them torn in pieces. Not too encouraging. I even remember seeing a sign that we thought meant someone had died at that spot.